


Hobbit short fic

by Jarakrisafis



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 08:48:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1260253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jarakrisafis/pseuds/Jarakrisafis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of short fic that's not big enough to warrant it's own work</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sanazl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is your life. It doesn't mean you have to like it.

“...Durin ku bin-amrad,  
Uzbad Khazad-dûmu...”

You know this song. It's easy to hum along with the melody, hand wrapped around a mug of ale as pipe smoke hangs thick in the warm air of the tavern. The smell of pipe weed is always good, if you concentrate you can even start to work out the different types. They each have their own scents, some soothing, some relaxing, and some harsher, for the days you need to cry and weep. Except you are a khuzd and khazâd don't cry. You rant and rail and fight and let your anger bleed out red from your enemies. A good fight to get the blood going, or if that's not possible a small tavern brawl would work. You'd be right there at the centre, laughing as you toss some ignorant khuzd over your shoulder. Your father beside you, a smile on his face although no doubt his eyes will be on your mother as she fights. Her black braids swinging as she makes short work of any one stupid enough to think she is made of anything other than corded muscle and sinew. Anybody who knows your family knows it's your mother that you don't insult.

Except.

No.

That's not right.

A screech in the darkness. Blood on the breeze. Screams in the shadows. Falling, drifting, the tang of copper on your tongue and you can't hear anything familiar any more except the horn, too far away. Too late.

Far too late.

It's not your father sat beside you. Nor your mother.

Who then?

Cousin? Yes. You tug at a braid just to be sure. He turns to give you a questioning glance and you roughly pat his hat in apology even as your shoulders lift in a brief shrug. Stupid thing that hat, but you can't begrudge him his comfort. They couldn't bring much back beyond the injured and the bodies, or so the healers said. The hat had been unmarred by the brief battle - slaughter - and you'd let him keep it because it was all he had left and your cousin deserved more than just broken memories. Even if it hurts sometimes when you turn too quickly and still see your uncle before the illusion is shattered.

* * *

You asked about the cart. You didn't know why but you asked and the silence had stretched for a long moment before they had apparently come to a decision and left the room. You hadn't expected to get an answer right away, but you had. Or perhaps you hadn't, because it didn't make much sense and yet it was entirely right and the worry that had been tugging at you subsided. Even if you didn't know why it felt right as your arm curled around the smaller body trying to burrow into your side. You could hear your name from the young khuzd as his shoulders shook with sobs and you just tightened your arm, looking up helplessly because you still don't understand and the khuzd who had left and then returned merely looked from you to the young one against your side and down to the bundle in her arms. You could guess what she was thinking. She wanted to know if you could remember who they are.

You look down again at a tug on your beard, red rimmed eyes meeting yours and the youngling sniffs again, his other hand clutching at a hat that is far too big for his small head, his voice wavering as he tells you that he did what he was told and kept his brother quiet like he was meant to and stayed in the cart but he'd been so scared and he thought they'd all died and he's so glad that you are still here and what are we going to do now. And you can't do anything but run your hand over his back, like you remember... somebody doing as you tell him it's all right. It _will_ be all right. You don't know that, but you can't tell him anything else, because he and his brother may be all you have left and you do remember that they are kin and they are more important than gold and jewels. You rub the back of your hand across your eyes before the tears can fall because you have to be strong now for Bofur.

* * *

Bofur. Yes. You always remember them, but it is good to remember names. Sometimes it's hard, so hard. You can try and try and they are like leaves on a river, always floating beyond your grasp no matter how you reach for them. You tried to catch the leaves once. The river was far too deep though and you almost got swept away before you pulled yourself out of the current. Never did catch the leaf either.

The song ends. A pity that because it is one of your favourites. Father and uncle used to sing it when you were young, their voices mixing in harmony as you curled under the rough worn blankets you shared with Bofur since he refused to stay in his room because his brother was still a babe and always crying. You never minded as he snuggled into your side, small fistfuls of your newly growing in beard curled around his small fingers. You always liked it when he managed to stay awake so that he could ask for them to sing it again. There is a brief argument between those holding instruments and you almost laugh because they were are so alike to father and uncle, down to the good natured jostling and insults and the way that one simply starts another song, his pipe whistling merrily until the others add their instruments to the pipers tune.

“The world was young, the mountains green,  
No stain yet on the Moon was seen,”

The tavern perks up, high spirits throwing the room into a raucous array of singing voices, some more adept than others at the well known song. You almost join in before a growl escapes, hand tightening around your mug because no matter how much you know what comes next, you just can't seem to say it.

Bofur slings an arm around your shoulder, it's not like he can do anything else if you're honest, as you glower at the tabletop as if you could set it alight with your gaze. A pity that isn't a talent Mahal gave to his children or you would have likely burnt down a lot of taverns. Not that some of them would have been a loss. No, all you have is the stone sense, and no matter that it is stronger than most have, it's not like you can use it now. They don't trust you any more. Not that you would either. Mines are not the sort of place that is forgiving at a moment of wandering attention. Still, the lack of trust hurts even if it's not likely to change any time soon. If it was it would have done so long ago. After it happened. But it hasn't. Every day is the same as the first.

* * *

Drifting.

That is your first thought.

And darkness. Like a miner on a long rope in a deep shaft without a candle.

Almost an afterthought that until you wonder about why it is so dark.

It would help to open your eyes.

Then there is light, blinding, bright, too much, too much it hurts and you pull away, saying as much. Keeping them firmly closed against the overwhelming brightness..

There is a growl and you flinch further, curling yourself into a ball because the last thing you remember is orcs and blood and screaming and they must still be here because the growling is getting stronger, more frantic, it almost sounds like an orc trying to speak Khuzdûl, gruff and deep and then there are arms holding you down and a different voice telling you that it's all right, that the orcs are long gone. But they can't be because you can hear them, so very, very close.

Then the world dissolves into brightness again as you gag, eyes forced open as they water but that at least lets you see the khuzd holding the sweet salts under your nose even as you try to raise a hand to push away the vile smell before all the fight suddenly leaves you as your mind screeches to a halt amongst the jumbled thoughts tumbling through it.

The. _khuzd._

Marukhs. Marukhs. Marukhs!

You must be saying that aloud as the khuzd chuckles very, very slightly as he agrees that he is no orc, although it stops abruptly as you reach out to tangle a hand in his beard. His vaguely affronted look at your rudeness doesn't even register as you use it to ground yourself because. Orcs. Don't. Have. Beards. At least you don't remember them having beards and somehow you don't think they could have grown one as fine as this just to fool you so he must be a khuzd and that means...

Safe. Safe. Safe. It's like a mantra in your mind for a long time before you accept the gentle tugging on your hand and you consent to uncurling your fingers, but slowly because you don't want to lose that grasp on reality and return to your body which is suddenly here and real and Mahal it _hurts._

Everything aches, or at least, if it doesn't it's so small a part that you don't recognise it and it takes a moment for you to realise that the healer has found one of those strange places where there is no pain and is tapping on your arm until you focus your gaze on him. He speaks and you tilt your head slightly as you concentrate on answering the question he just posed, ignoring the rattle of pain that seems to shoot through your head as you move and how did you miss that it hurt before? It's worse than any ale induced hangover you've ever had.

You wince at the growl that escapes your throat, nothing like the soft lilt that you're used to hearing from yourself and could that have been you speaking earlier? That growl that seemed to echo and rumble around the room. The khuzd hums softly, using a chalk stick to scratch out the runes of your name on a slate before asking another question.

Except. Except you don't know the answer. It's there, yet not. There, and then gone. You shake your head. Slowly though. Lest that pain return if you move too quickly.

The khuzd nods before asking another.

Then another.

Fear rises like a ground quake, like the uncontrolled tremble of rock in the deep and you grasp at the cot you're resting on. It is solid and grounded and you need the connection because your mind isn't under your control and you can't answer his questions and you should be able to do something so simple. Shouldn't you? Nor can you can't find the words to explain what's wrong. If you even know what's wrong. All you know is that there was a fight? Yes. There was a fight and you were hit by something. Because. Because... You were protecting something. A cart? Yes, and it is important, very important, but you don't know why exactly.

You have to clench your hands on the cot to stop yourself from crying.

Khazâd don't cry. That's what you tell yourself when the fear and panic start to rise whenever you try to think about what you should know.

* * *

There is weight on your arm, you growl out a warning, only the soft familiar tone of the voice speaking beside your ear stops Bofur from getting a face full of mug and the dregs of your ale. Not that it's stopped you a few times when you've recognised him a moment too late to stop yourself. Although to be fair, he's gotten very good at ducking when he has to.

You were drifting, he tells you as he gently unwraps your fingers from the mug, setting it aside before it is broken in your vice like grip. Again. It wouldn't be the first time you've ended up picking shards of ceramic pottery or wooden splinters out of your hands and you're glad that the mug has been saved this time. Even metal tankards aren't safe when you start to think to hard. Because no matter what they say you aren't drifting.

If only, you were, if only. If you were drifting you wouldn't remember the pain. Maybe you'd even remember what came before the pain in something other than snatches of sound and colour and faces you no longer know the names of except that they are important. That they are kin.

But those memories are beyond you. And you are reluctant to admit that they probably always will be. Hovering just out of reach. Frustratingly teasing.

You sigh, the sound coming out as more of a snarl, as such things are wont to do nowadays. You might be slowly accepting that this is your life. Such as it is. It doesn't mean you have to like it.

And sometimes, when you're alone, you weep for what was and what will never be again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hobbit meme: One of the company is female.

Thorin sighed. Dwalin grinned. And none of the remaining company, bar Bilbo, even twitched as a couple of coppers changed hands.

In fact Bilbo wasn't doing much of anything and Bofur helpfully reached out to close his hanging jaw.

“Nice right hook.” Nori said in appreciation over the crack of a breaking bone.

“Ubkhugelekh!” Bifur said with clear glee as he leaned against his spear.

“Good follow up too.” Somebody else muttered as an elbow sunk into soft flesh.

“That was evil.” Kili said with a wince that was shared by all the watching males of every race, some things were common to men, hobbits and dwarves. Then again when one is only four feet tall, ones attacks, when going up against men are inevitably going to end up somewhat... low.

“Are you going to help, ah, her?” Bilbo finally asked.

“Does it look like she needs any help?” Thorin drawled and Bilbo just shook his head as Thorin's comment was illustrated by another man landing face down in the muck of Bree.

Dwalin gave the hobbit a sideways glance. “Why do you think I always keep my weapons by my side? Dwarven women are far more dangerous than any orcs.”

“Too right we are.” Balin said as she stepped over one of her still unconscious conquests and politely thanked Dori for holding her tunic. “Now that I've sorted that, shall we be moving on?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hobbit kinkmeme request: Gimli getting the blame for something one of the elder dwarves did.

Well, if nothing else, today has been... interesting. That is of course, not entirely a good thing, however, it's also not exactly a bad thing.

The King had come down to Dale, took one look at the cells and burst into laughter. That I hadn't been expecting. Although I probably should have given Uncle Oin's presence at Dain's side as he entered.

So yes, that wasn't too bad, the King even paid the fee to let me out and waved off repayment, the story apparently was worth it.

Father of course was less than impressed. Although who his ire was directed at was anybodies guess. I think it was probably aimed at the men for choosing a time when father wasn't with us and thus depriving him of a fight.

“So, I hear you got into a scrap?”

I idly wonder, and not for the first time, if I could get away with becoming as selectively deaf as uncle Oin is as cousin Dwalin appears at the door. I could do with not having to listen to this again.

“Aye, we did.” Oin says as he uses the hand not holding his ear trumpet in place to wave Dwalin in. “it all started when some men decided they liked the look of our coins that young Gimli here had been flashing around.”

“I have to shout prices at you.” I mutter defensively.

“So, they come circle us and are making the usual threats at us and next thing I know, a couple of them are trying to push me aside. And the rest have got Gimli on the ground.”

Dwalin raises a brow in my direction, “thought I taught you better than that.”

“There were five of them.” Cousin Dwalin has clearly gone just as deaf as he ignores me and waves Uncle Oin to continue.

“Well, I did warn them that they should let him up and apologise. I even asked politely. You now what those impudent thugs said? That I should go back home to my warm fire and if I stayed out of it then I wouldn't get hurt.”

“Uncle clearly has selective story telling today too, I distinctly remember the phrase being 'if granpa stayed out of it then he wouldn't get hurt'.”

“Well, I wasn't about to let them get away with that, and besides, Gimli was in trouble and needed a hand.”

“To be fair, they were having to sit on me to keep me down.” I put in.

“Anyway, the poor young pups didn't have a clue, I soon cleared that up. Laid them all out and we were planning to head on our way when the Dale guards show up.” Oin grinned, “you know what they did?”

Dwalin shook his head and I just sighed.

“They drag Gimli away to the cells while telling me that I shouldn't worry, it's all over now and they'll send a runner up to Erebor and it'll all be straightened out soon.” Oin finished the tale with a self satisfied smirk and Dwalin roared with laughter.

I just propped my head up with a hand. Sometimes, life just isn't fair.

**Author's Note:**

> 'Durin's song' Khuzdûl lyrics by David Salo  
> 'Durin's awakening' poem by J.R.R.Tolkien
> 
> Neo-Khuzdul translations by myself using the work of Tolkien and Salo. Feel free to suggest corrections.


End file.
